


La Tarte Aux Fraises

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Javert Lives, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: It is the day of Fantine Pontmercy's first birthday and Javert, against his will, is going to a party.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	La Tarte Aux Fraises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Misty_W](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_W/gifts).



> Happy birthday, lovely Andy. Love u long time ❤️❤️🎂🎂

“I do not see why such a fuss has to be made,” Javert grumbled, his head buried in the newspaper. “The child will not know what is happening.”

Valjean was unmoved. 

“Cosette wishes to mark the occasion. Fantine will know at the very least that she is surrounded by love and good cheer.”

“She is but a year old,” Javert protested, but these days he knew when the battle was not worth pursuing. Any argument that involved Jean Valjean’s first grandchild was one such occasion. 

“So you will come?” Valjean asked, peering around the edge of the newspaper. “Cosette did ask for you.”

“I cannot imagine why. But yes, I will attend. Do not expect me to provide any of the good cheer.”

Javert could think of little that he wished to do less than attend a birthday celebration for a pampered infant, but at least if Valjean was occupied with his family, Javert would be able to slip away and conceal himself somewhere quiet within the vast Pontmercy house. 

On the morning of the ninth of August, which promised a warm day for the festivities, Javert dressed before his mirror. Valjean was not to know, but it so happened that Madame Pontmercy had brought her child into the world on what was in fact, as far as he could remember, Javert’s own date of birth. He had never seen his own birth certificate to confirm it, but he had a hazy memory of his mother telling him so, and she had no reason to lie about it. 

It mattered little, of course. Javert had never had cause to acknowledge the advance of his own years, save to note that he had once been a small boy and then became a youth and now he was an old man. He peered at his reflection as he undid his cravat and began to re-tie it. If he was correct, he was today fifty four years old, and every one of those years was showing on his face. His hair had been grey for years, but there were newly developing streaks of white at his temples, and he needed eyeglasses for reading. He did not carry his years with as much dignity as Valjean did. 

Valjean was already in the kitchen when Javert entered. He was wearing a new waistcoat, of a daring blue that made his eyes seem bluer in their turn. He was also in a radiant mood. 

“I can scarcely believe it has been a year,” Valjean said, pouring Javert coffee. “Do you remember the call, in the middle of the night?”

“How could I forget,” Javert said dryly, sipping his coffee. The gamin sent to rouse Valjean when Madame Pontmercy began her labour had knocked the door as frantically as if the hordes of hell were after him. Javert was ashamed to admit it, but he was a heavy sleeper, and the rude awakening had left him disorientated and in a black mood. He’d cursed the boy, snapped at Valjean, and gone back to bed once the old man had practically run from the house. 

Valjean only chuckled. Javert watched him from the corner of his eye; it was not a bad thing to see him so content, even if the reason was such an obnoxious one. His friend had suffered too few reasons to smile in the course of his life. 

The morning went quickly, and all too soon it was time to submit to the tyranny of Madame Pontmercy’s party planning. Valjean carried a carefully wrapped present for the child, a set of wooden animals that he had spent many days carving and painting, asking Javert’s opinion on colours and likeness. 

“She will spend more time with them in her mouth than anything else,” Javert had said. “You could give her an unvarnished stick and she would be pleased with it.”

Still, the animals were handsomely, and lovingly, done. Even Javert could see that. He doubted any other present would be half as meaningful as one made by the hand of a doting grandfather. 

Due to Valjean’s eagerness, they were of course the first to arrive at the house. The servant opened the door to them, but Madame Pontmercy was close behind him. 

“Papa! And Inspector Javert, you came!”

“Madame,” Javert said, removing his hat, as Valjean took his daughter into an embrace. He seemed to whisper something in her ear, for as they pulled apart, she had a conspiring smile on her face. Valjean held out the present for her inspection. 

“Oh no, Papa, you must give it to her yourself. Now, before the other guests arrive, perhaps?”

Valjean blushed, but nodded.

They followed Madame Pontmercy through to the library, where Monsieur Pontmercy, Mademoiselle Gillenormand and Monsieur Gillenormand were sitting. Pontmercy had Fantine balanced upon his knee. She was a pretty baby, with blonde hair and green eyes, and Javert had not often heard her cry. Today, she had been dressed in blue, which was not far from matching her grandfather’s new waistcoat. When she saw Valjean, she reached out her arms. 

“Pa!” 

“Good morning, Papa,” Marius said, handing his daughter over to Valjean’s waiting arms. “Good morning, inspector.”

“Good morning,” Javert said, taking a seat in his usual corner. All eyes were upon the child, which was very well. From here, he too could watch Valjean with little observation of his own person. 

There was something to be said for how well Valjean handled the infant, and how much she seemed to adore him. Javert had never, for his own part, necessarily disliked children. He thought they were troublesome and likely to cause mischief, but that was not translated to dislike. They were tolerable, and more so when they were the cause of so much happiness for Valjean. 

“I will just be a moment,” Madame Pontmercy said, going to the door. “I have to speak to cook.”

“Can you believe that it has already been a year, Fauchelevent?” Monsieur Gillenormand said, addressing Valjean. 

“I cannot, indeed,” Valjean said, jiggling Fantine in his arms until she began to giggle. “She keeps us young, does she not, sir?”

Javert rolled his eyes. It would be a long day if every person could not believe the child’s age, and felt the need to comment upon it. He could only hope that there were not too many guests arriving to make the observation.

He did not hear the conversation that followed, mostly because he did not wish to. But when Valjean handed Fantine back to her father and took up his present, Javert paid attention once more. 

“They are just a trifle,” Valjean said, and Javert almost spoke up to contradict him, but kept his peace. Such humility was just Valjean’s way. Instead, he watched as Valjean helped Fantine to remove the pristine paper around the wooden box, and listened to the squeal as the child opened the lid and immediately grabbed at the brightly coloured bird. 

“Why, Monsieur Faucelevant, they are quite beautiful,” Mademoiselle Gillenormand said, rising from her seat to look into the box. “Wherever did you get them?”

“I expect they are handmade,” Monsieur Pontmercy said. “My father-in-law is a man of many talents.”

It was pleasant to see Valjean’s hard work duly appreciated. Fantine sat upon the floor and took every creature from the box, handing them to her father so he could line them up for inspection. There was a veritable Noah’s ark, and Javert had watched the formation of each and every one.

“They are not all my own work,” Valjean said. “Inspector Javert’s input was very formative.”

“You flatter me,” Javert said, as several pairs of eyes turned to look at him. “I only passed comment on colour of paint.” 

At that moment, Madame Pontmercy returned, followed by a maid who was pushing the tea trolley. 

“Luncheon will be a little later, once the other guests arrive,” she said. “I thought we could fortify ourselves with some coffee and a little cake.”

“An excellent idea,” Monsieur Gillenormand said, patting his stomach. 

Valjean stood from his perch on the sofa and went to his daughter’s side. They had a murmured discussion, and then Madame Pontmercy carefully picked up a fruit tart from the trolley. 

“There has been a little deception,” she said. “Today is, in fact, not only Fantine’s birthday. It is also Inspector Javert’s.”

Javert’s stomach dropped as all eyes turned to him. He looked sharply at Valjean. 

“How did you know?”

“You told me, last year.”

“When?”

“I expect you do not remember. You’d been woken by the gamin at the door, and I do not believe you were entirely conscious of what you were saying.”

Javert clenched his fist at his side. Of all the ridiculous nonsense to blurt out, and of all the nonsense for Valjean to remember. 

“I do not celebrate the day of my birth.”

“We could not leave the day unmarked,” Madame Pontmercy said, approaching Javert with the tart. “But Papa said you would not like a fuss. So there is only this, before our other guests arrive.”

She was referring to the tart balanced in her hands. It was strawberry, which happened to be Javert’s preferred flavour, and beautifully decorated with an ornate ‘J’ made of sugar paste. 

“Happy birthday, dear inspector,” Madame Pontmercy said. 

“Happy birthday!” echoed the room at large. 

It would be impolite to be churlish, so he nodded.   
“I thank you all. There was no need for such pageantry, but it is appreciated.”

The room descended into chatter as Madame Pontmercy showed around the tart, and then set it down for the maid to cut. Valjean himself brought Javert’ the first slice, and a cup of coffee to go with it, almost shy in the way that he handed them over and said, “Happy birthday, my dear friend.”

“You could have given me a warning.”

“If I had, you would not have come,” Valjean said.

“You know me too well.”


End file.
